


No False Steps

by triumphforks



Series: Character Studies [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triumphforks/pseuds/triumphforks
Summary: This is a 'character study' written in early 2014, for the purpose of demonstrating an understanding/interpretation of character for roleplay. It has some original ideas and extrapolated interpretation surrounding canon events (as they stood in 2014)!
Series: Character Studies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688593
Kudos: 2





	No False Steps

no false steps —

There was something about the excitement of discovery, some sense of wonder that took hold of the imagination and held it captive, refused to let it go. It would strike from nowhere, sneak up all quiet like and stealthy, when he least expected it. There he'd been, minding his own business, trying to imagine the most terrifyingly awesome alien in existence, when the cheers from the television called out and demanded his attention. He'd only meant to take a quick look, a glance to sate curiosity - and that, right there, had been the fatal mistake.  
  
He saw people _fly_. He watched them leap, watched them run with a look of desperation and determination and sheer _will_ , watched them play with a ferocity he could only imagine. Slowly, ever slowly, the boy had inched closer to the screen until he was full in front of it, wide eyes shining, shouting with the crowd even though he had no idea what was going on. One look, and he was hooked - the whole scene drew him in and held him tight. But there was one figure his eyes kept focused on, one moment that held his breath more than any other: on the serve, as the ball flew in to the air, time itself seemed to hang still. He'd watch without breathing, every muscle tense, waiting, just _waiting_ for the contact, the serve to be hit and send everything speeding back in to real time.  
  
He was hooked. He felt like he'd found something, something new and exciting and nothing could even begin to compare. He watched their forms, their movements, each step and jump and fall - and of course he had to try it all too!  
  
When he finally had his own volleyball, he was so overcome he could barely move. He didn't want to look at it, incase it disappeared. For the first few days, he couldn't take it out - the spring rains had hit and his mother yelled when he'd almost knocked a light fitting clean off the roof. And when the time came and the skies were clear, the air heavy and humid, he almost couldn't step outside. He had the ball tucked under his arm, and he had convinced himself he was ready for this - he had never been more serious about _anything_. But there was that niggling, in the back of his mind, the doubt that he'd fail, that he'd try all the things he'd seen and watched so many times, and he'd fall flat on his face and people would see and they would _laugh_. He didn't want that. He wanted to be the _best_. How could he deal with the thought of failure?  
  
He had been secretive, at first. Glancing around and making sure no one was looking, before tossing the ball lightly in the air and hitting it just like he'd seen. He'd made it, the first time, ignoring the fact that it would have fallen well short of any net, had there been one. He gained a bit of confidence from that, and soon had it flying every which way he pleased, each successive hit bringing a bit more confidence to his step and stance.   
  
There had been a moment where he was gripped by sudden anxiety, and everything tightened inside and he froze, misjudged the timing, and had the ball slam flat on his face. When he picked it up, with subtle movements and slumping shoulders, he caught sight of a young boy watching - and his first thought was _so that was it, how dare you._ He pulled a face, poked his tongue out at the boy (he wouldn't give Iwa-chan the dignity of a greeting, not after he made him fumble like that. Didn't he know not to stare? _So rude._ ) and tried to hit the ball again, only it wasn't right, he could feel it, every nerve in his body was on edge and he made a thousand excuses in his head, and then a thousand more, but none of them were ever said aloud. He simply stood straight and stiff and declared he _meant_ to do that, he couldn't be perfect all the time, he was only human, what did anyone expect?  
  
After that, there was always the lingering fear that someone would be watching (even if Iwa-chan became curious himself, and eventually joined in). He couldn't falter. Not when people were watching - he knew they would judge, knew their eyes would follow every movement and find every mistake. _He couldn't let that happen_. He might be young, but he knew a single slip would ruin everything. While he knew he wasn't perfect, he always kind of felt he had to be.  
  
And thoughts like that leave their mark. Every so often he would tense, would slip, and in his mind everything would be over, even though he'd laugh and brush it off. Because he _meant_ to do that. Clearly. By laughing it away, he could catch the judgement before anyone who was watching even knew to judge.

  
i won't falter —

All he knew was to keep practicing. Day in, day out, noting any slip, fumble and falter - it was all he could do to keep improving, to keep reaching for that perfection that seemed to constantly elude him. Some would say he was obsessed. He preferred the term 'dedicated'. He'd stay behind after formal training was over, would spend off time thinking and thinking and _thinking_ about every match, about every move he made, about every way he could improve. Even if it was just something small, inconsequential, the thought that _he_ could be the one holding everyone back, failing them. And he wouldn't live with that.   
  
But the walls kept on rising, and each and every time he came up short. On the court he could feel every eye on him, judging his every movement - he was tense, _too tense,_ slipped up and made stupid mistakes which would only make him more aware, more likely to stumble and fall with everyone watching.  
  
All he knew was to keep pushing. Keep pushing until the wall broke - or he did. He was so focused on the way forward that he didn't notice what was happening around him. He barely realised what was happening to himself, as he grew ever quicker to snap, ever more critical of every movement. He laughed less. He brushed off mistakes with anger rather than a smile. He was slowly crumbling, and the worst of it was he didn't even know he was doing it himself.  
  
In his third year of middle school, he knew he was coming to an end. Not _the_ end, but an end all the same, and suddenly everything grew that bit more urgent. The new students who joined the club were unknowns - they were a threat, his replacement, they'd fill his shoes by killing him while he was still standing. There was one in particular who he knew was eyeing his back, just waiting for the moment to strike. He heard the coach talking about him - a prodigy, a genius, one destined to stand above the others. He froze. He forgot how to breathe. More dangerously, he forgot how to _think_.   
  
In their next match he was nothing but nerves, tightly wound and ready to snap at the slightest touch. He hadn't slept. Hadn't stopped thinking, although where he would usually concentrate on the next move or the next step, he was far too preoccupied with holding himself together. Every movement was stiff and projected. Every reaction was slower than it should be, slower than it needed to be, because in the instant he should have moved he froze and panicked instead. Instead of instinct, his fear grabbed him and held him back, tight and unrelenting, the pressure of perfection chaining him to the court when all he wanted was to fly.   
  
People were watching. There were eyes everywhere, and they could see every tiny mistake. And they were judging, he knew, they were judging his lack of talent, of skill, knew the murmur of the crowd was made up of disappointment and insults. They were watching him fall. They _wanted_ him to fall. As the thought crossed his mind his stance slipped and he saw the ball coming for him, and before he could unwind he _hit_ , sent it away hard, in any direction - it didn't matter, he wanted it gone, he wanted it to stop!   
  
It was only moments later that he realised what he had done, and watched the biggest mistake of the game fall. It was sooner still, that he was sent to off the court and forced to watch as the _genius_ took his place. Forced to hear the cheers of the crowd, forced to hear their awe and see the plays of someone who surpassed him in every way. He hung his head as his body shook, kept his eyes on the floor and not the shadow that spread his wings across the court. No one wanted him now - they barely even noticed he had gone. How could he compete with a genius?  
  
Later, he tried to think about what he could do. He couldn't think when people were watching, couldn't relax when the rest of the team was at play - so he stayed behind after training, every day, practicing his serves until he couldn't feel his arm anymore, and then going on for another hour after. It used to give him peace. Now it just wound him further still. Every hit was _wrong_ , every step a mistake. He couldn't do it. _He couldn't do it,_ not when he closed his eyes and all he could see was the shadow growing larger, stronger, taking everything he had and doing it far better. He'd never be in the starting lineup again. He was doomed to haunt the bench and pray for the shadow to falter, but of course it never would - it was a _genius_. A prodigy. A king of the court.   
  
He tried to clear his thoughts and focus on practice. He thought he almost had it, breathing deep with the ball in his hands as he pushed everything in to concentrating on the spin of the serve. He thought he could do it: everything felt _right,_ for the first time in ages, and he exhaled, opened his eyes, stood straight and tossed the ball to the air, reached back to hit, and —  
  
 _Will you teach me how to serve?_  
  
The voice broke through all his fragile walls of concentration, everything he had built to keep it out. He missed the timing, missed the spin, and on contact the ball flew low and crashed in to the net. The voice was ringing in his ears, and he lost it. He didn't even see the boy's face, couldn't sense anything in his tone or his stance or feel anything other than the empty despair that had grown to become his everything. He lashed out. He wanted something to hit, and here it was right in front of him - hand curled in to a fist, he swung without thinking. He wanted to break something, and who better than the person who was slowly breaking him?  
  
But he was pulled up short, pulled back with such force that it knocked all the rage from him. He caught himself - but not on his own, no, he knew he never could have stopped on his own. The fire in him still wanted to lash out and cause pain, still wanted to rip apart the upstart who wanted to upstage him.   
  
_Dumbass!_  
  
The word shook him, even though he'd head it so many times before (Iwa-chan was not the most imaginative when it came to insults). No, what got to him was its tone - the desperation and pure anger that seeped in to every syllable, tearing in to him down to the core. He was pulled back to his self, but he still wanted to fight. He _had_ to fight, because if he didn't, what was he? Admitting he was something to just be walked over, that he was a failure that could be brushed aside without a second thought, that he was nothing, _nothing_ , and god he knew that already but he'd be damned if he was torn down without a _fight-_  
  
 _Stop thinking only about yourself! **I** can't do this, **I** can't do that - there are more of us out there, dumbass!_  
  
He didn't want to let the words get to him, but they did - shots were fired and the hit their mark, breaking what little shields he had left and striking straight and true. He had let this happen. He had let everything build up and even though he thought he knew what to do, thought he saw the court and everything on it, the only thing he'd really been seeing was himself. He couldn't keep doing that. He wanted to forget that day, but knew it would be one that would stay with him forever - because it was the day he found himself, and found a way he could go forward without losing everything.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Will you teach me how to serve?_  
  
At the sound of those words, he wanted to crush the ball in his hands. Didn't the genius brat take a hint? He didn't hear admiration. He didn't hear a junior eager to learn. He heard a taunt, a threat, a challenge. _Teach me how to serve._ Teach me the only thing you have worth knowing, so I can get rid of you all the sooner. Teach me the tricks you've been practicing endlessly, every day, for years and years and I will show you I can master them in a day. Because I'm a prodigy, and you will never compare to me. Because I'm a genius, and I'm after your head.  
  
The first thing he had to do was remember to breathe. He had to remember to stay calm, had to remember the people around him and that he could beat this. He could beat the taunts and the dark feelings they brought, could beat anyone and anything standing in his way. He had to remember to smile, because even if it was all fake it would give him the confidence to believe he could face anything, even this little shit whose very existence made his heart stop and his breath catch, whose every word had him tense and tight and ready to snap.  
  
He had to remember to keep fighting.  
  
 _If you're going to attack,_ he had said, ignoring the other boy's question entirely, _keep going at it until your opponent breaks._ His words had been delivered with cheer, with a smile, but inside he was a fire raging, hands tight on the ball and shaking, doing everything he could to keep himself level, to stop himself from lashing out. The smile was his shield. His laugh was his armour. His words were a sword. I won't let you in, they said, I won't let you beat me. Because you may be a genius, but I won't even give you a second to breathe. I will attack, and keep on attacking, until you are nothing.  
  
He didn't speak to the boy, but rather to the shadow he cast, the shadow across his own heart that had grown to cover more than he knew. He faced it then as he would again and again, slowly tearing it apart so he could stand tall again. He would not be beaten by fear, by the insecurities that dragged at his step, caused his mind to slip and tore him down in the dark of night. He had to be stronger than that. There were people who believed he could be. And he would keep going, for them, and not let the shadows breathing down his neck get so close to breaking him again.

not today —

The distance gave him the time and space to breathe. A change of pace - and a change of view, that's what he needed. What would he have done if he'd never found it? At Aobajohsai he was given the chance to learn what it really meant to be the centre, the hinge of the team. _Think about others. You're not the only one out there._ Slowly, he began to pay less attention to his own small missteps and more to the movements of his teammates - the way they watched the ball, the way they reacted, the way they followed it and hit it and sent it flying high in the air. Slowly he began to see how every piece worked together. It was beautiful, he thought, and he could make it moreso. Just an adjustment here, an arc there, and all the practice they could manage, and he could make the plays that really mattered.  
  
He had spent years pulling himself down, he knew that now. At least it came with the benefits of knowing his every step so well that it was barely a thought to shift stance and move to the rhythm of his teammates. He wanted to draw out their potential, because if they all shone bright they could defeat any genius' shadow.  
  
(He had to keep believing that, because at the back of his mind there was still that lurking fear, that even all this work would be undone. He had to keep believing, not piling up the pressure on himself but in looking to those who were there to support him.)   
  
He turned his aggression, all his fear and anger, on to the opponents on the other side of the net. Attack, and attack, and keep on attacking, until they all fell and the threat was gone, gone for good. It never would be - but he clung to that hope, the hope for the day when he wouldn't feel the tightness in his chest and the fear that drew it in. It was the reason he could keep on going. And he knew it was a poor reason, but it was all he had to distract him and stop him from falling once more. He turned his thoughts away from himself - he had to _trust_ , to trust his friends and his team and in their ability to beat back all odds. He had to trust in himself, to not be afraid, to not dwell on the shadows chasing him and instead just _jump_.  
  
And when defeat came calling, he had to trust in his strength to stare it down and say it loud and clear -   
  
Not today.


End file.
